The hedgerow closed behind them the moment they passed through. Ganelon felt a powerful wave of vertigo wash over him as the thick bushes knit together. He looked back at the seamless wall of greenery. There was no trace of the gap where they had entered. He wasn't even certain he was facing the right direction to retrace his steps.

The hedges were thick with roses, both black and white. The flowers' fragrance was overwhelming, even stronger than in the bower. Ganelon's disorientation grew more profound. He could only keep moving if he focused on the White Rose, her firm hand on his arm and the soothing lilt to her voice.

"We are agents of a justice older than Sithicus, older even than Soth," she began. "We are here to remind the Knight of the Black Rose that such justice reaches even into those places hidden from the gods."

"I don't see what I can do to help you," Ganelon said. "I don't really understand any of this."

"That is no surprise. You've been drawn into this struggle in ways not even we could have predicted." The Rose plucked a white bloom from the hedgerow. When she spoke again, that immeasurable sadness had returned to her voice. "Epic events, like blind giants, will trample upon even the innocent unlucky enough to stumble beneath their tread."

A pale glow suffused the path ahead. It reached above the tall hedges to drive back the lowering night. As Ganelon and the Rose walked on, the air grew close. Swells of heat washed over them. A thin sheen of sweat formed on Ganelon's brow, and his lungs ached from gasping in the superheated air.

At last they turned a final corner and saw the source of the strange light and the awful heat.

There, at the labyrinth's heart, stood a pair of mammoth cauldrons. They were five times a man's height, as wide around as a mine shaft. Scaffolding surrounded them both, the ramps and platforms concealed behind an ornate latticework of gorgeous metal flowers. Even as Ganelon watched, wild elves bustled up the scaffolding of the nearest cauldron, sacks of white roses upon their backs. They emptied the bags into the pot and hurried back down. All the while, the chatter of the madmen in the maze wove together as a chant that underscored the weird rite.

The second cauldron was the root of the blasting heat. A roaring fire raged within the huge iron pot. On the ground surrounding it lay a few sacks of roses-not white or black, but red. Such flowers were impossible to grow in Sithicus. Even blooms smuggled in from Invidia or Barovia blackened within a day or two.

The White Rose gestured toward the rare blossoms. "That is how you can aid us, Ganelon," she said. "The second cauldron has been purified and stands ready. We only need flowers enough to fill it."

At the puzzled look on Ganelon's face, the White Rose merely held up the pale bloom she had plucked from the hedge. The flower merged with the white moon overhead. "We've already brought Solinari to the heavens. When Lunitari shines its crimson light upon Sithicus, Soth will stand ready to receive our sentence. But we must hurry. As we speak, soldiers from Invidia are on the march, moving into place to besiege Nedragaard Keep."

"Even if I knew where to find enough red roses to fill the pot, I couldn't carry them back here by myself." Ganelon slapped his leg brace. "I can't ride, and I'm not even certain I could walk very far."

"Oh, boo hoo," whispered a voice in his ear. The smell of the Beast's breath struck him an instant later. "Always sniveling about yourself. Well, don't think twice about it, little boy. You stay home and play with your brace. I'll take care of Helain."

Ganelon lashed out with a spinning backhand. The Beast didn't move or flinch. Casually he caught the young man's fist in one grimy paw, then pulled him close. The two were face to face as the Beast said, "It's about time." He held Ganelon there for an instant longer, orange-filmed eyes glittering with perverse delight. "Maybe you can help us after all."

The Beast shoved Ganelon away. "The deal is this," he said, stroking the food-crusted hair on his chin. "You bring us red roses, and I lift the madness from Helain's mind. You'll find a field of crimson beauties just over the Invidian border. They're a bit livelier than most flora, but you'll manage."

"Cure her first," Ganelon said. "I'll do whatever you want if you cure her first."

"You must prove yourself before we can reward you," the White Rose answered coldly.

"We traffic in justice here," the Beast chimed in, "not mercy."

"I'm not leaving here without her."

"We did not intend for you to do so," said the Rose, though the Beast seemed surprised at the news. "You will take Helain, and as many of the Beast's wards as you wish, when you make your journey. They can carry the bundles back."

"What about the elves? At least they can follow orders."

"The wild elves who tend the cauldrons are the only ones left. The rest have already taken up the quest," the White Rose said. "You have heard our offer, Ganelon. What is your answer?"

Ganelon slumped onto the ground. "What choice do I have?"

"There is always a choice," the White Rose said. For the first time, anger had crept into her voice. It was a terrible thing to hear. "You walk the path of honor or you do not."

The Beast cowered, hands covering his hideous face. A chill swept over Ganelon, not a sensation born of fear, but a palpable cold that radiated from the White Rose. It damped even the heat of the cauldron's blaze.

The anger in the Rose's voice, the fear it inspired in the Beast, did not sway Ganelon to the quest. It was love of Helain that prompted him to accept. "I'll storm Nedragaard Keep if that's what it takes to save her," he said at last.

"Do not make such offers lightly," the White Rose noted. Once more she held out a silk-gloved hand for Ganelon to kiss. As she did, her sleeve rode up just enough to reveal a glimpse of her charred and skeletal arm. "You may be called to account for such oaths in ways you never expect."

With a shudder, Ganelon touched his lips to her stiff, cold fingers.

The day was unlike any other for the Wanderers. For the first time since Magda formed the troupe all those years ago in Gundarak, the dawn found the Vistani in the same camp they'd used the night before.

Superstition had prompted the troupe to seek a new site each day. Magda's ancestor, the fabled Vistani hero Kulchek, had suffered under a curse that required him never to sleep in the same place twice. As she carried Kulchek's cudgel and traveled with a hound descended from his own faithful Sabak, so Magda took his customs upon herself. Her tribe had no choice but to follow her wishes.

Inza felt no such compunction, even though she, too, carried more of Kulchek's legacy than some vague blood tie. The dagger she wielded was none other than the hero's own storied blade, Novgor. That needle-pointed, ever-sharp blade had freed Kulchek from the chains the nine boyars used to enslave him. With it he'd picked the lock to the tower in which the giant hid his beautiful daughter. Novgor was the only weapon sharp enough to cut the tree the Wanderer found at the top of the world, the tree from which he fashioned his cudgel, Gard.

It was the only weapon sharp enough to score that same unbreakable cudgel, to render it useless in Magda's hands on the night of the salt shadow attack.

That dark deed had caused Inza no discomfort. How, then, could abandoning Kulchek's habit bring her harm? The curse, after all, had been leveled against him, and he was long dead.

So Inza had stopped the caravan from breaking camp the afternoon before. "We've found no better site on the edge of the Fumewood," was the only reason she gave.

Some of the Wanderers grumbled. A few even took their bedrolls and went off to sleep in the woods. Most of the gypsies, exhausted from a week of scouring the Fumewood for some trace of Bratu, merely slouched off to their vardos to get a few extra hours' sleep.